Before the ball or puck drops to begin play,
Fist-pumps waft in the air like the scent of potato skins,
Gliding off the treys held by passing waiters and waitresses.
For a moment, fans of rival clubs
Snarl the cruelest of languages at each other,
And point with the pointiest and most pointless of index fingers
At opposing chests and faces.
But long before things get too heated or too much,
As does happen with strangers holding shared loves,
Opposing fans laugh together, and become so friendly by being so inebriated,
The drunks begin to act like long-lost brothers.